The Hell We Create
by BenevolentDCC
Summary: After receiving his Doctorate in Psychology, an intelligent, slightly jaded man gains employment in a highly desirable institution only to find himself plagued by the horror stories he found soothing as a child. Dr. Lance Brady will come to find himself in a battle for salvation wherein the distinction between good and evil can become easily blurred.


Chapter 1

Dr. Lance Brady awoke with a start, he could feel the nightmare beginning to fade into the recesses of his mind but he knew he had been surrounded by mutilated flesh and deep rolling puddles of blood. He was covered in a cold sweat, but this was nothing new. As a child he had suffered from night terrors and though the doctors assured his parents that it was a phase that would most likely pass, it hadn't. He could not remember much of the dreams, chunks of flesh and the occasional river of blood notwithstanding, that plagued him throughout his life but he could never shake the sense of impending doom that always lingered upon waking. Fear ate at him, fear of things that he could not name, fear of the unknown and the unknowable, but for one such as him that had suffered as he had suffered and had been forced to fight for everything he had in life, he would not allow fear to hold him back. Today he would taste the fruits of his labors, he would embark upon the solo journey that he had spent so much of his life trying to obtain. He rose from bed, separating his clammy skin from the clinging sheets, feeling the creak of his bones as he summoned them to life and to his bidding. He padded naked and glistening through the small one room apartment to which he had resigned himself, for the time being, and into what this time plagued establishment would dare to call a hot shower. In truth, Lance doubted the fine owners of this establishment knew what the word "hot" meant, he also doubted they knew what the word shower meant.

"Here at Holy Mary's Healing Hands, we pride ourselves on our ability to provide for our clients, a unique setting within which to recover from the stresses of the world around them. We take the utmost care to ensure that the needs of our clients are our top priority." The tour guide spoke in a crisp voice that carried easily through the immaculate halls of the facility. He had heard it all before, each facility claimed that they were putting all of their collective energies into serving the clients, but in reality the crowd of faceless phonies were simply punching their clocks and waiting for the shift to be over.

On and on they walked. He had been hoping that he would get hired for this position as the pay was good, especially for someone just starting out, but he had lost faith in his ability to really make a difference in the world a long time ago. They walked by rooms where patients could be seen playing board games or more accurately sitting at game tables adorned with pieces that never moved, or watching the static dance on the poorly tuned television set which appeared, at his estimate, to be at least fifteen years old. They passed by administrative offices, and medication cages, shower rooms, bathrooms, on and on the incessant squeaking of sneakers on freshly waxed linoleum becoming a deafening drone of insanity inducing white noise. Until they came to pass by a door marked Basement and a little plaque below which read Specialty Staff Only in stern looking red letters.

"Where does this door lead?"

"Excuse me? Who, oh! Dr. Bradley."

"Brady. Dr. Lance Brady."

"Ah, sorry Dr. Brady, you were asking?"

"Where does this door lead?"

"It leads to Red Robin."

"Come again?"

"It leads, as it clearly states, to the basement."

"Okay, well what are you keeping in the basement." Dr. Brady was getting annoyed.

"That is where we keep our solitary rooms. We reserve them for our particularly disturbed, prone to over-stimulation, or highly volatile patients."

"And do we have any of those patients here at Holy Mary's currently?"

"Only one. Now, I think we have wasted enough time on the basement. It is not part of the tour as only specialty staff," he indicated the plaque once more, " are allowed inside. If all of you will follow me we will head to the main floor where our more self-sufficient patients begin to bridge the gap between suffering a mentally de-stabilizing event and returning to a 'normal' productive life outside of our walls." Lance Brady was not satisfied with being brushed off in such a patronizing manner. He had a feeling there was more to this basement than was being let on and his curiosity was always his main driving force in life. He would find out more, he would know this hospital in and out before the weeks end. It was only Wednesday after all.

The rest of the hospital tour, and subsequently the rest of Dr. Brady's day, were very straightforward. Someone had hallucinated, another patient bit an orderly, and by lunch things were going exactly the way Lance expected them to go. He was quickly becoming bored with his new job because, much to his chagrin, there existed no teeming underbelly to the daily goings-ons at Holy Mary's. So it was, on his first day at his new job that he slipped off to explore more of the corridors and if he just happened to end up in the hallway with the mysterious basement sign, then it must be a message from God that he attempt to find a way inside. Forty-five minutes, six wrong turns, and an impromptu conversation with a very bendy looking nurse left Lance standing in front of the ominous red script wherein were housed the most dangerous peoples, or in this case person, whom called Holy Mary's home. He looked left, then right, checking for the prying eyes of someone who would make this trip more difficult. Finding no one sneaking up on him, he reached out and grasped the cool metal knob of the door. He expected to find it locked, some dark conspiracy to prolong his quest for satiation of curiosity but found that it turned easily within his grasp. He slowly opened the door waiting for one of the hinges to squeak, crying out to his presence, but when nothing came he stepped through and began to walk down the stairs.

Lance lived for the thrill, he could feel his heart beginning to beat faster as he travelled further into restricted waters. It was a turn-on for him to break the rules and explore places where he was not supposed to be; sometimes he explored crypts, other times the women's locker rooms. He had been caught on occasion but it was nothing that good looks, charm, and a great smile couldn't get him out of. He knew he had the looks at six foot two inches, blond hair, and deep blue eyes. His dentist had taken care of his smile, capping and bleaching his teeth until the were an even dazzling grin which could reduce the most frigid woman to a quivering puddle. He had spent years training and working his body until he had reached as near physical perfection as could be attained. The charm, well that had just always been a quality he possessed in abundance. Still, he knew he wasn't allowed to walk into this area and the thought alone was enough to get his blood pumping but the thought that there could be anything down here from monsters to serial killers left a cold tingle tracing his spine that he relished with complete delight.

He had long since stopped believing in God but as his feet padded on the concrete steps he forced his mind to travel back to a time when he believed in the presence of demonic evil in the world, when monsters and other unimaginable terrors stalked around every corner just waiting to devour the errant traveler. Through this technique he was able to build a roaring fire of fear burning through his veins as he beheld the row of doors which filled the basement landing of the hospital. Only one of these rooms had light shining from the square one foot by one foot window set into eye level of the heavy steel door. No doubt there was padding on the other side but from his viewpoint it looked like the door could keep goddamn King Kong locked inside. The scariest thought that occurred to him at this moment as he stood facing a single piercing light in the darkness was; there is a man living in the basement. He stepped into the light and peered through the window.

The light that had seemed so bright in the darkness of the hallway seemed stunted as he peered into the room. The walls were a dingy sweaty grayish brown and it smelled of bad hygiene and despair, it also appeared to be empty. He looked from wall to wall, tracing the line of the walls from corner to corner thinking that maybe his eyes had glossed over the inhabitant but even in taking his time he saw no one.

"You shouldn't be here." The voice came from behind him.

Dr. Brady turned around to face whoever had discovered him only to find that he was utterly alone in the hallway. He faced back toward the room and still it was empty. For a moment he was confused, maybe he had imagined the voice. Just as he was going to turn away from the barred window the face appeared. Piercing green eyes which seemed to cast their own light flashed at him from the other side of the window. Lance jumped back, a startled cry escaping his throat as he reeled into the darkness.

"It. . . isn't. . . very. . . often. . . that. . . the. . . thing. . . in. . . the. . . light. . . scares. . . us. . ." He spoke slowly, with a low calm voice, stretching the words out till they sounded like sighs. "This. . . is. . . why. . . we. . . fear. . . the. . . dark."

"Huh?" His startled mindset had left him without most of his faculties. He watched as a piece of paper fluttered from the window, dropped by a hand that seemed frail and powerless. This piece of paper called to Lance, compelled him for some unknown reason. He felt drawn to it, mesmerized by the graceful lazy side-to-side drift to the floor.

"Why. . . do. . . you. . . turn. . . out. . . the. . . light?" With that sentiment the patient turned away and sank down against the door once more. Lance picked up the scrap of paper, tucked it into his pant pocket, and hurried from the basement.

Once he reached the safety of the main floor once more he allowed himself to relax and feel the giddiness which results in the aftermath of a good scare. He took a seat near a male patient talking to a table top lamp about killing "Bambi" for a cup of caffeinated coffee. He imagined that passersby glimpsing him laughing next to a man talking to a corner would not be able to distinguish him from those he sought to "heal." Leaning back to catch his breath he slid his hands into his pants pockets out of habit. Feeling a tickle at the tip of his finger he removed the scrap of paper. Holding it in his hands he was greeted with a blank irregular oval hand torn piece of lined paper, it occurred to him that usually patients confined to solitary rooms had no access to paper unless it was heavy stock construction paper and the occasional crayon. This paper posed a slight mystery to Lance but the mystery seemed shallow until he heard.

"Turn it over." The male patient sitting next to him talking to the lamp had whispered the words.

"Were you talking to me?" He addressed the patient directly but got no response. As he turned away he heard.

"I told you already, first I turn-ed to the left and that's when I saw it. Bambi was standing there and I shot it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Don't you see? Can't you hear the whispers, the clinks, the clanks, the jangling bells and chains. The man in the basement is not a man, not a man, a monster, a living breathing tormentor. I killed Bambi for a cup of coffee. Turn it over, tune it in. The words are burning my soul my tongue. ThebloodwasonmyhandsandIcouldn'tturnitoverturnitoverturnitoverturnitover." The man slowly turned toward Lance, his eyes closed, tears and blood mixing down his cheeks. "TURN IT OVER!" Lance jumped away from the patient just as his hands reached out to grab the lapels of his coat. After groping the empty air Lance had previously occupied the man turned slowly back to the lamp and in a calm even voice asked, "Now where was I?"

Lance, shaken from this weird encounter turned over the scrap of paper he had clenched his fist tightly around, and read the words written in a neat script of pencil lead. Not the childish scribblings of a worn out crayon but a sharp and potentially deadly number two pencil. The words were a terrifying call from his childhood. Nighttime horror stories told in a whisper and an increasingly tense voice building the suspense. The words which had not at first registered with him read, "I'm on the first step, I am coming for you." The Blood drained from Lance's face and fear of the otherworldly flooded through him for the first time since he was a child.

Work in a mental institute, no matter what frilly titles they give the building it will always be a mental institute, carries by it's very nature an ability to clear the mind of an individual through the necessity of taking care of unpredictable patients. It was no surprise then that by end of shift Dr. Brady had all-but-forgotten about his run in with the patient in the basement and the man in the corner. Thanks to his smile and charm he also had succeeded in getting a date with the very bendy nurse, Cindy, that he had met in the hallway and they were now heading by way of Lance's Camry XLE. They were listening to some androgynous singer complain about how he/she lost his/her lover because of...well because of something or other. Lance really couldn't give a shit. He felt like a million bucks and the way that Cindy was flashing her smile and playing with her hair this was a done deal. An hour or two of pleasant conversation and good wine was sure to be followed by two or three hours of sweating, moaning, nibbling, and screaming ecstasy. This was the plan until Cindy took his jacket and a familiar scrap of paper fell from his pocket. She bent to pick it up, he jeans hugging her hips and framing everything so perfectly it left his mouth watering. She turned to look over her shoulder catching him staring before slowly standing back up with just a little more swing to her hips.

"And what is this?" She asked. "Is someone already passing you love notes?"

"No, but I have been waiting for you to give me one all day." He smiled, flirting came so naturally and provided a great distraction for an active mind like his.

"I'm on the first step, I am coming to get you." She visibly shuddered. "What does that mean? It sounds creepy as hell."

"Can you keep a secret? I don't want to get in trouble."

She smiled, her brown eyes sparkling. "Sure. Now I'm really interested."

He stared at her admiring the features genetics had blessed her with, high cheekbones, big innocent eyes, a provocative chest, and hair that fell perfectly, framing her face as if she were a model.

"It's a story from when I was a child, a story my mother told me. Something I had completely forgotten until I was given this piece of paper."

"Who gave it to you?" She put her hand on his leg scooting closer and leaning in paying close attention to every word he said like she just couldn't get enough of his voice.

"The patient in the basement." She froze, her hand lifted from his leg and her smile faded completely.

"You went into the basement? Oh, man! No one goes down there unless they absolutely have to, I haven't even been down there, hell you couldn't get me to go down there!"

"What can I say, I'm a bad boy."

"So, what is this story then, the one that's on the scrap of paper." Cindy's hand fell on his leg again, this time a little farther north.

"Are you sure you want to hear it? It's a scary story."

"Your mom used to tell you scary stories before bed?"

"Those are the only stories worth hearing before bed." She looked at him uncertain before he began laughing. "She usually tried to tell me a happy story before bed, but I would beg to hear a scary story and then by the end of it all I would be sleeping in my mom and dad's bed because I was too scared to sleep in my own."

She laughed, a beautiful lilting sound that made his spine tingle.

"So, still want to hear the story?" He knew that nothing brought bodies closer together at night than a little bit of fear and a need for security.

"Sure. Let's hear it, but if I get scared I'm going to hold you responsible."

"Fair enough." He began to talk.

A small boy in flannel pajamas was just settling down for bed, his unruly blond hair falling into his endlessly deep blue eyes. His mother, a lovely caring woman with long dark hair, tanned skin, and warm caring eyes sat on the edge of his bed, running her fingers through her baby's hair as she prayed with him before bed.

"Our father, who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil." Nothing in his life had ever, or would ever again, soothe him as much as her voice.

"For the Kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever." His little voice, barely comprehending the words spoke them, finishing the prayer, but he said them with only her in his heart swearing the kingdom of Heaven and the power of God to his mother and her alone.

"Amen." They spoke the last words together.

She rose from his bed preparing to leave the room. He always wanted more time with her so it was part of their routine that as she prepared to leave he would ask for a story. She stood and waited, he looked up at her his eyes shining from the soft glow of the nightlight.

"Momma, will you tell me a story before you go?"

"Sure my sweet Prince. Once upon a time there was a perfect little boy,"

"Not a fairy tale Mommy, I want to hear a scary story. Tell me the one about the potato man." This story never failed to scare him to such an extent that he would be unable to sleep alone.

"I don't know sweetie, that story is really scary." She tried to dissuade him from hearing scary stories before bed but she knew that he would not change his mind. As expected she was greeted with:

"Please Mommy! Please tell me about the potato man."

She smiled to herself, she loved that she knew her child so well and though she tried not to admit it to herself she adored having her only child in her arms as she slept. It seemed that having him so close to her kept her from having bad dreams where he was no longer in her life.

"Alright sweet Prince, I will tell you about the potato man."

She leaned in close, lowering her voice until it was barely a whisper. He could feel the tingle of fear setting in and he smiled as she began to talk.

"There once was a woman who lived in the second story room of a wooden run down shack and her name was Delilah Watkins. The stairs would creak as she walked up and down, the boards were worn and faded from years of shoes stomping up and down them. This was a time when people had very little money and many died of starvation hoping for things to get better. As a matter of fact the little shack was not far from here, and when it was eventually torn down many of the boards were re-used to build other, newer, houses. I can tell you that the same boards which formed her stairs were just the size that we needed when we built this house. The man selling the boards told me the story I'm about to tell you so that's how I know they are the same boards her shoes crossed for many years. Now I have to remind you that as I'm telling the story you mustn't say her name, you mustn't even think the name Delilah Watkins. Ah!" She jumped. "I shouldn't have said her name. You see if you say her name or even think it then the story becomes a race. Del-, She will rise from her grave and come to find the one telling her tale and the more you say her name the easier it is for her to find you."

He snuggled deeper into his bed, pulling his blanket up higher on his body. He knew that the boogeyman couldn't get to him if he had his blanket pulled up and covering him almost completely.

"During this time it was common for people to make deals with one another concerning the sale and purchasing of food and other items. Delilah Watkins"

"Mom! You said her name again! Now you have to tell the story even faster!"

"She had gone without food for several days at this point and she was getting so hungry. Her pride had prevented her from making a deal for food but the pain was becoming to crippling and she knew that if she didn't eat soon she would surely die. So, Delilah Watkins,"

"Oh no, Mommy, you said it again!" He ducked down farther into his bed.

She began to speed up, adopting a fearful look as if something were really coming to get them. "She went to the butcher and begged and pleaded but he turned her away stating that he could not help her. Then she went to the flour man and again she was turned away. Lastly, she turned to the potato man. He was short and fat and the smell of his sweat had always left Delilah Watkins," she continued over her sons cry of alarm as she spoke the taboo word once more. She sped up getting more anxious with every spoken word. "Sick to her stomach. The potato man was known for the deals he would make with people in exchange for goods but his prices were on the border between acceptable and too high of a price to pay. He always got what he was promised though and so it was with a heavy heart that she approached him and asked him what he could offer her. After he looked her up and down he stated that he could give her a sack of potatoes which would keep her fed for quite some time but in return he would require something of hers that she had never given anyone else. She didn't want to agree and at first she tried to back out but the potato man asked her, 'Delilah Watkins' " her son screamed again, "how long do you think you will live without food? Now she knew he was right and that she had no choice. So she took the potatoes he offered her and went back to her house. With the potato man you never knew when he would come to collect his fee but you could guarantee that he would come and collect his fee at some point."

"Are you sure you want me to continue?" His mother asked.

"Mommy, you can't stop now, she is looking for us, Delilah Watkins is coming for us unless you finish it." The blood drained from his face as he realized he had spoken her name aloud. In all the tellings of this story, and even the daytime hours that passed between tellings, he had never before spoken Her name.

His mother saw the fear and knew that he had terrified himself, she also knew that she had to finish the story because of the rules she had introduced about the name and the consequences of saying the name. "She had went about her life as normal traveling up and down the squeaky stairs and dining on potatoes and so much time had passed that she had forgotten completely about her agreement with the potato man. And so it was one gray overcast day, the kind of day that preceded a major storm, that the smelly squat potato man knocked on Delilah Watkins door coming to collect what she owed him. She met him at the door and when he reminded her of her promise she felt the bile rise up in her throat threatening to cause her to throw up all over the ground. The good meals had restored her strength and her pride so Delilah Watkins had no intention of paying any price this filthy perverted man wanted from her. They began to shout as lightning filled the sky and as the potato man screamed at her she saw an approaching car barreling down the road with little regard for who might be out and about. Delilah Watkins saw her opportunity and as the car came closer to her house she shoved the potato man putting all of her weight and strength into the attack sending her debtor tumbling into the street and the path of the oncoming car. The vehicle ran clean over the little man one set of tires crushing his knees as the other set reduced his skull to a smeared mess on the pavement. The driver didn't even seem to notice that anything had happened and within a few minutes the car faded to a pair of tail lights seeking clearer skies in the distance." As she spoke her voice began to waver, her body trembling in the low light and her words quickening with each passing of the forbidden name. "Free from her debt she returned into the safety of her house, locking the door behind her, and climbed the stairs, ten total, before climbing into bed. The skies opened up and a storm tore through the town. As the hour got later and darkness descended, the clouds blocked out any light from the moon casting the world into a complete and all consuming darkness."

He had heard this story a million times so he knew what was coming next. He scrunched down further into his bed knowing that the story had to be finished.

"Delilah Watkins was just drifting off into sleep when she heard the familiar click of a lock coming undone, a slow piercing squeal as the door hinges screamed into the night. She knew that no one else had a key to her door, she was certain that no one would enter into her house without knocking, and she was also certain that she would know that permeating, sweaty smell anywhere. It couldn't be him though because she was also certain that a speeding vehicle had reduced the potato man to a bloody mess which was just beginning to decay in the road. Still her heart began to pound as she heard a footfall and the familiar squeak of the boards of her stairway."

"' I'm on the first step, I am coming to get you.' It was his voice, the potato man was inside her house! 'Delilah Watkins, I am on the third step, you shouldn't have done that.' She thought to call for help but couldn't seem to get her voice to work. ' I am on the sixth step, Delilah, I always get what I am owed.' Another creak, another, and another still. 'Delilah Watkins, I am on the ninth step, I can hear your breathing. You promised me Delilah Watkins, something that you had never given anyone else.' She found her voice and now heard it bouncing around her room as she screamed. ' I am at the foot of your bed Delilah Watkins, can you see what you have done to me?' She could see, despite the lack of light she could see from her memory the destruction of his face, the twisted way his legs had bent after his knees had been crushed. The most vivid picture was the way his mouth had been torn open by the speeding tires. ' I am standing beside you Delilah, now you are MINE!'" As she screamed the last line of the potato man's statement she shot her arms out and grab her boy causing him to scream in fright before giggling as she tickled him mercilessly.

"You have to finish the story Mommy, hurry!" he said as he fought free of her tickling fingers.

Resuming her spooky whisper voice she said, "Three days passed before anyone went looking for Delilah Watkins. They found her in her bed, in the center of a bloody mess, her mouth opened in an eternal scream an angry gaping wound in her chest. They found her heart had been ripped clean from her body. See, Delilah Watkins had never been in love before and the potato man, in life had wanted her heart in love, in death he had settled for the beating bloody mass within her chest. And so ends the tale of Delilah Watkins."

The story ended the same way it always did, with her son sleeping soundly beside her, her arms wrapped around him holding him tight and vowing to never let him go. This was, of course, just a few years before the doctors found a different type of mass in his mommy's chest.

"I can't believe you told me that story in the restaurant." Cindy was blushing a beautiful pink as she walked arm in arm with Lance heading, as he predicted, back to her place.

"You asked me to tell you." He said smiling at her.

"But you didn't have to grab me at that last part." She punched him playfully in the arm.

"Sorry sweetie, I have to tell it the way that it was told to me. Besides it's nice to have a good scare now and then."

"Yeah, but it's embarrassing when you scream like a teenage girl in the middle of a crowded restaurant." She wrapped her arm around him again.

"Well, how about I make it up to you?" He gave her his most charming smile.

"Hmm, how would you do that?" Her eyes sparkled mischievously.

"Whatever you say I need to do." He matched her gaze while letting his hand slide to her hip.

A couple hours later Lance lay in bed beside a quietly snoring, very satisfied, and very naked Cindy. He hadn't been able to sleep. Visions of horrors from his childhood kept swimming before his eyes whenever he tried to close them. How had the man in the solitary room known about that story? He resigned himself to another sleepless night and turned his mind to other things as he waited for the sun to rise.

Chapter 2

She woke with a smile and a stretch, he was awake to see it all. He had learned in his many years as an insomniac that sleepless nights could have one of two very common results; a really shitty morning or a foggy burry effect which left you feeling as if you could see even the smallest feature in the most vivid detail. Looking at her taut body stretching to it's limits he believed he could see every detail of her nipples as the stiffened and began to lengthen from the cold. She turned slightly, catching the way his eyes devoured her body. It had been a long time since anyone had made her feel the way he made her feel with a simple look and a smile. In his sleep deprived state she seemed to sparkle and for one horrible moment his vision of her changed and he could have sworn that she was something unimaginable but when his eyes focused once more she was still beautiful, still naked, and now she was smiling at him with a little glint in her eye that said she wanted to cause a little more mischief. They weren't due to be back at work until later that afternoon, working a four pm to two am shift had certain perks in would seem. After a quick romp in the bed, a slow grind in the shower, and a frenzied collision in the living room, Lance found himself traveling absentmindedly back to his apartment to try and score a quick power nap before heading back in to Holy Mary's.

On the four pm cycle he found himself working a more challenging circuit of patients. He was in a ward of the hospital termed the bedridden and traumatized, or B.R.A.T.'s circuit. This wing seemed more daunting because a lot of the patients were dealing with some pretty serious health issues in addition to failing mental health. Lance, wearing his Dr. Brady outfit, strolled down the hall feeling his confidence chip away piece by piece with each harrowing introductory visit with his patients. Currently he had met with a young man suffering from skin necrosis (which literally caused his flesh to fall from his bones) as well as schizophrenia, a woman in her early twenties who had lost her sight in a domestic abuse event involving a needle who also had been sexually abused multiple times as a child. Then there was Mrs. Colleen Cole, Mrs. Cole to everyone because she, "had no friends and wanted no friends thank you very much!" Mrs. Cole was an elderly patient whom in addition to multi-system degradation and diabetes, also had severe and worsening dementia. Mrs. Cole was a venomous nightmare of a woman, or so he had been told. He was not looking forward to entering her room and room 109 was fast approaching.

Mrs. Cole couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet and duct taped to a person that weighed a hundred pounds. She had few of her teeth remaining, and the hair on her head was wispy and falling out in clumps. Angry red splotches painted her face and her scalp and hands were covered with scabs. Her nails were thick and yellow with some type of fungus and the whole room smelled of stale urine and formaldehyde. He could tell that he was going to hate working with this women from the very first "Fuck you!" she screamed at him.

"Good evening, Mrs. Cole." He gave her his most charming smile.

"Fuck you, Cocksucker!" Yep, he hated her.

"I see you are in good spirits tonight Mrs. Cole. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself, I am-"

"I don't give a shit who you are, faggot, I want you and that little slut you live with out of my apartments right now. Take all your dyke friends with you!"

"Mrs. Cole, you are in Holy Mary's Healing Hands and I am Dr. Lance Brady."

"You are a fucking cock-sucking piece of shit you fudge-packer." In her rage she spit at him, flailed her arms so that her IV ripped out of her skin, and managed to roll around enough to work her catheter out urinating all over the bed.

"Alright Mrs. Cole I will leave you alone now so that all of these lovely nurses can get you fixed back up. Have a good night."

"Fuck you, fuck you!"

As nurses rushed to and fro trying to put Humpty-Dumpster Bitch back together again, Lance decided it was time for another visit to the basement to visit with Holy Mary's very own Hannibal Lecter.

He found his way to the basement door with only one wrong turn this time. It would have helped if they hadn't made everything look so much alike. They could have put down different tile or something to give someone a clue of how to navigate this crazy ass labyrinth full of crazy asses. He guessed he wasn't doing too bad if he had gotten enough sleep to allow him the ability to make fun of those he wanted to help.

The door to the basement closed silently behind him and he barely heard his footsteps as he made his way deeper into the basement. He found the patient exactly where he had left him - the same place you find a dog with no legs - but this time the patient was sitting against the back wall and raised his head as if he had been waiting for Lance to arrive all along.

"That's a pretty good trick you pulled with that piece of paper, Sport. How did you pull that shit off?"

The patient looked at him but made no move to respond, merely angled his head from left to right as if trying to determine what was staring at him through his door.

"Um... hey, let me ask you...how did you know that I would know what story that line was from?" Again that inquisitive adjustment of his body so much like a dog trying to comprehend the words it's master had spoken. "Ah...um... alright man, whatever."

"Would. . . you. . . like. . . to. . . know. . . the. . . true. . . nature. . . of. . . angels. . . and. . . demons?" His voice was captivating. A reverberating sound like a tuning fork. A pure, even, perfectly tuned musical note filling the air.

"Oh, you can talk again. I would love to hear your story but only if you don't talk so fucking slow."

"Itisthemarkofanuneducatedmindtoresortovulgaritieswhensomanymoredescriptivewordsexistwithinthespectrumofhumanvocabulary." A jumble of words, a taunt at an unnecessary provocation.

"I apologize for my slight, I only meant that I would like to hold a normal conversation with you, uh..." Lance looked around for a patient file, a plaque, anything which could tell him the name of the person he was addressing.

"Abel," he said it with a hint of pride, "my name is Abel."

"Well Abel, I am-"

"You are Dr. Lance Brady, top of your class, published in many journals and texts for you revolutionary adaptations of stale ideas which became very lucrative after some re-working. You are one of the youngest individuals to be welcomed into a professional capacity at this hospital, you had very satisfying sex with a nurse last night, and then found you could not sleep."

Lance was stunned. What at first appeared to be a patient whom possessed only rudimentary conversational skill had quickly become an oracle into the lives of others. Lance was certain there had to be a rational explanation, maybe Cindy hadn't been very discrete about the things they had done.

"That's another neat trick you have there. You sure are full of surprises. So, this story you want to tell me, is it a good one?"

"The best, the kind of story that is made immortal and exalted because it is true and entertaining. The real nature of angels and demons."

"Alright, let's here it."

"Let me show you Doctor." In a flash Lance felt a sting of pain as he was flicked in the forehead by Abel. The patient had crossed the twelve foot room in the blink of an eye and struck Lance before he had even noticed the movement. Lance prepared to cry out but as quickly as the pain flared, it faded, and just as quickly he found Abel back against the far wall.

"In the beginning God said, 'Let there be light,'" as he spoke Lance watched as the world faded away to darkness to be pierced by a roiling fire, "and the fire was breathed into life. A moving mass of licking flames that craved fuel, craved to find things to devour in their wake. These flames, you see, were the first angels. Highest of the high, most exalted, most feared. This was time when the world was new and the monsters we teach our children aren't real, called this world their home. Real monsters; dragons, goat-men, wild beasts, and unimaginable creatures of which the human mind could not hope to comprehend. These angels, the first of us, were named Daemons. They loved battle. Craved it. Worshipped it. Made temples to the Creator from the bones of the slain and adorned their resplendent armor with trophies hacked from the carcasses of their foes. Horns, scales, tails, anything they found visually appealing or could be used to augment their battle prowess. These are the beginnings of our conceptions of demons. Humanity could tell that there was something different about these monstrous visions. Their guardian angels seemed pale in comparison to these tested and deadly warriors."

Then came the Shining Light. The most beautiful flame to dance within His palm, when this angel's feet touched the ground golden footprints were left in his wake. The most powerful of all of us, Daemon, Archangel, and Guardian Angel alike bowed before him. He raised his hand and we watched in awe as his gleaming sword swallowed the night becoming the commander of nightfall and the bane of all opposition. Upon the battlefield he had no equal flashing in and out of existence traveling across the battlefield as if distance held no meaning for him. His blade left a wake of slaughtered corpses in its wake and his bloodlust could not be satiated. Imagine his disappointment when the war was over and there were no more creatures to be slain. So he, clad in armor stained with blood, adorned with the seven heads of the false gods, the wings of the Tiamat the great dragon, and the tail of the Lord of Opposition. He could not be unmade, you see, could not live an existence where Nightfall, his sword, could not rip the life from the enemies of his Father. He cried out for more domains, more worlds to conquer for his Father. He was deemed an abomination and cast out, trapped in a realm created specifically for evil. Now let me ask you, if God could destroy this Satan he had created, why didn't he?"

When the world returned to a more familiar state, Dr. Brady found himself standing once more outside of the basement door standing in the familiar hallway. He knew he had been standing outside of Abel's room, remembered the conversation they had shared, even the vivid detail of the story Abel had told him. He just couldn't remember how he had gotten back out of the basement or why the story seemed so vivid.

He was asleep. He had to be asleep. He was standing outside of Holy Mary's in his work uniform and beside him was the devil. His coat was heavy and coarse against his bare back and the heat radiating from the Father of Lies was causing him to sweat profusely. He head a rumbling as if the ground were breaking open and the Devil began to speak. His mouth moved ever onward, the sound of the rumble that follows lightning, of rocks splitting with explosive force, of metal being cut by high pressure friction. He looked up and could only make out the chin of Satan beneath the helm he wore, it wasn't pointed as it appeared to be in so many drawings, he also didn't have a goatee. He felt a cold chill race down his back as he noticed the other heads were speaking as well, their dead eyes staring into the heart of the hospital while their grotesque mouths recited some incomprehensible language which filled him with fear. Satan put his hand upon Lance's shoulder and in that instance of physical contact Lance saw the man in the basement. He saw Abel. He felt his skin begin to warm at the contact, saw the boils forming on his skin, and felt his flesh begin to melt. He tried to move away but he was no match for the grip which held him. He saw the sword, a blade as black as crude oil appear in the Devi's hand, he looked up seeing that the devil had turned his gaze upon him. He was judged under the gaze of all eight sets of eyes and he screamed with all of his soul because he knew he was in hell.

He awoke in bed screaming and covered in sweat and burning from the inside out. He rushed to the shower and turned the spray to the coldest setting before jumping in, still wearing his bedclothes, under the blessedly cool spray of water. At Holy Mary's he had a nurse take his vitals and his temperature, everything was coming back normal and it was true that he no longer felt like he was being consumed from the inside by an unstoppable fire. Maybe it was just a bad case of some food poisoning and a horribly vivid nightmare. He found himself working the Brat circuit again and while he had been given some new patients to work with and get to know, he had been allowed to keep Mrs. Cole as one of his first "regulars."

He heard her before he could even make out the numbers on her room door. Something had set her off, one of the many things that could possibly set her off at a given moment. He could hear the "bitches, faggots, fuck you's," and even a singular "Lick my cunt, slut!" erupting from the small medical room. In spite of the nagging sense that he should avoid this room he stepped through the doorway and immediately became more intimately acquainted with Mrs. Cole's teeth as they sank deep into his arm. The pain was instant and though he doubted she had the strength in her jaw to puncture his flesh he immediately jerked his arm free of her mouth sending her crashing to the floor.

"What the FUCK is going on in this room? Someone get this woman sedated so we can have a moment of goddam peace. Jesus Christ!"

It took the nurses nearly fifteen minutes to contain hurricane Cole within her bed and at that point the initial shock of being bitten had worn off to a bruised ego. "Can someone please tell me what was going on in there?"

A nurse stepped forward, "It seems that Mrs. Cole has been neglecting her diabetes and sneaking sweets into her room. Her blood sugar got too high and it sent her into a delusional rage. She was hissing and spitting and biting anyone who got near her. We tried to keep her contained to the room but when you walked in we became distracted and, well, she moves fast for an old bitty."

It was a understandable situation. Something administrators said could be avoided but in reality was no more controllable than any other force of nature. "I think," He began and before he could finish he was pulled to the side by another doctor, some words were exchanged hastily and then both men rushed off.

Chapter 3

"Look me in the face and tell me right now, why I shouldn't fire you where you stand!" As first meetings go, this probably wasn't the best way to meet the hospital administrator. He was big man, about six foot tall, three hundred and fifty pounds. His name was Alexander Pewter and if the gossip in the hospital could be believed, he was not a man to be trifled with.

"I'm sorry, sir? Why would you be firing me?" Lance was not being evasive for once in his life. Lack of sleep and tormenting dreams had shredded his memory and left him beyond exhausted.

"Why would I be firing you?! I would be firing you because you can't seem to read or follow direction in a facility where order and rules are everything!" His voice had risen a little but the most alarming aspect was the deep shade of red now coloring his face.

"I'm sorry, sir, I still don't understand."

For a moment Alexander Pewter looked as if his head would explode, painting the walls in disgusting shades of arterial crimson and gray matter stucco. "We have cameras in the hallways. We saw you sneaking down to the basement in spite of the posted sign about specialty staff only. Were it not for the fact that no one else wants to go down there and we have video evidence that you went there voluntarily not once, but two times I would have you hand your badge in right now." He had calmed considerably during his speech and now he took a deep breath to begin anew. "As it stands, effective immediately you are my primary worker for room B03. State has been getting on my ass about not having someone spend at least twenty hours a week on the solitary line so now you are my man. Go nuts if you want to, spend as much time down there as your heart desires. Just be warned, the little man doesn't like to talk and doesn't like being watched. After you fill your twenty hours I don't care where you spend the rest of your week in the facility. Now, I'm done with you, get back to work and remember, effective immediately so you should be heading there now."

He expected to spend the first day in the basement as a welcomed presence talking with his patient and maybe hearing another story from Abel's twisted perspective. Whether he were crazy or not, he could tell a wildly creative story. To his disappointment, Lance spent the first day there in silence. Abel was asleep on the floor and would not be roused from his dreams. The boredom took its toll and by the time he had arrived at his apartment he was exhausted from forcing himself to remain in the basement. He laid down in bed and allowed himself to fall asleep. He did not care if he had bad dreams or not, he only knew that he needed some sleep.

Elizabeth Cole lay in her worn out hospital issue bed dreading the noises that were creeping in the shadows that filled the corners of her room. Soon that bitch of a nurse would be in harassing her to turn out the light and get some sleep, but she didn't understand, none of them understood what came out at night within the confines of this otherwise benign treatment facility. They did not know that the gateway between Earth and Hell had been worn thin in this area and that terrors beyond imagining could now pass with little effort from one side to the other. She could feel the sweat on her brow, her armpits, beneath her breasts, her skin became clammy and she knew that this was only the beginning.

chit-a-chit-a-chit-chit-chit-chitter.

A seemingly innocent noise issuing from the farthest corner, could be the pipes in this old building, could be some wall nesting bird that is trying only to make idle conversation, but Elizabeth could hear the saliva in the noise, the wet sloppy noises of a tongue clicking on the roof of a mouth and teeth opening and closing once more over and over. She could hear a terrible hunger in the silent question of her tormentor. She was afraid, these days she was always afraid, but at night a new level of terror came into being a terror that she could only describe as a demonic force.

Two eyes, yes, she could just make out two eyes in the shadows, set too far apart the eyes seemed to radiate curiosity, innocence. Elizabeth was not fooled. This was a trap meant to draw her from the bed and into the shadows, had it not been for her inability to rise from the bed, and the gnawing sensation in her mind warning her of danger, she might have fallen prey to the trap. She was, however, stuck. A metaphorical goat tied to a post watching helplessly as a predator moves in for the kill. Kill was a strong word, she thought, she knew that this new tormentor would not kill her intentionally, no this thing would make her beg for death and ignore her plea's only to return the next night and repeat the process once more. On and on and on, till the end of her days and ever after, this was her punishment for the life she had chosen to live.

SCCREEeeeeeeeee.

The sharp noise of the bedroom door's un-oiled hinges caused Elizabeth to jump and made her skin crawl. Had she really seen something withdraw into the shadows?

"Ms. Cole," The nurse began, "It's 9:30 ma'am, you know that its past lights out. You need to get your beauty sleep."

"It's Mrs. Cole, how many times do I have to tell you? And what do you mean "beauty sleep," I'm only 25, I can do without a little sleep now and then."

"I'm sorry Mrs. Cole, I must need to get my eyes checked because you don't look a day under 73 or at least that's what this chart says. Now turn out your light and get some sleep."

"To hell with your charts, you people make stuff up all the time."

The nurse entered the room with the intention of turning off the light.

"I'll get it, I'll get it." Elizabeth said. "You people always treat me like a child! I'm ninety-three years old, for Christ's sake!"

"Well I'm glad that the other nurses are catching on."

"I didn't mean the other nurses I meant you people, black people. Not just black people, no, fat black women with big old saggy tits, you burn in hell you rotten bitch."

That one struck a nerve with the nurse, Elizabeth could see the pursed lips and the tight tendons in the nurses neck.

"Goodnight ma'am." The words were clipped, hostility, anger, and hate dripping from the syllables of each word like blood.

Elizabeth turned out the light.

chit-chit-click-chit-a-chit-a-click-pop.

Darkness consumed the room in an instant and it was immediately followed by more noises from the corner of the room. The beast, whatever it was, was smacking it's lips in anticipation of the plans that it had in store. Frantic scurrying, bone scraping on the tile floor of the room. Suddenly Elizabeth felt the urge to turn on the light but in her mind an image had already formed. The moment she reached her fingers out to turn on the light there would be a crunch, a warm spray of blood, and then a blood curdling scream as she realized that her hand had been severed from her body. Her screams would continue until the beast had consumed her.

Fear is a powerful entity in it's own right. It can motivate a person into heroic action or it can prevent a person from acting at all and lead them headlong to their ultimate demise. Fear is all consuming and the moment you relinquish your will to it all is lost.

Right now, Elizabeth is in her room facing down her demons. Do you think she will reach for the light or is the fear of losing one small, measly hand worth the risk of becoming carrion for the denizens of another world?

He awakens covered in sweat in the safety of his own bed. Had it all been a dream? Were his daily visits with this deeply tormented individual bleeding through into his own sanctuary from the world in which he toiled? Angel, Demon, Daemon, whatever the fuck the sick bastard claimed to be he was one hell of a story-teller. The last images of his nightmare seemed intent upon replaying themselves over and over just behind his eyes, where the images were clear, where those sounds and smells which never existed would never cease to exist for him. His heart raced and he could feel the bile churning within him. It seemed that on this night evil had crawled into him to make a home and all that was good within him ached to be rid of the terrible and consuming weight of it; the horrible infecting blackness of the dream. It had to be a dream he told himself over and over, a sacred mantra which if instilled with enough faith surely must erase these thoughts from his mind. For all his want to forget, he was rewarded with nothing. There was no palliative care for a mind hell-bent on consuming itself and it was in this instance of hopelessness in which Damian did something he had not done since his youth. He fell to his knees and called out with all his heart as he prayed.

"Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, they kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth, as in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever. Amen!"

This prayer, which had once been the veritable "cure-all" for fears, now felt hollow and used up. True it had been ages since he had been to confession and sure he didn't have much faith to speak of, but he had always been of the opinion that prayer was more of a placebo than something that held true power. Over and over again he called out his prayer feeling nothing in return for his efforts, even as the night sky began to brighten to a more pleasant hue of color he continued to pray to a god he had long since abandoned. He prayed until his throat dried and cracked from his exertions and when he found that he could no longer articulate the words, he collapsed and began to sob into the stale, rarely cleaned carpet which lined the floor of his room. With each wracking sob he grew increasingly exhausted until with one final exhalation, peaceful blackness swept before his eyes and dreamless sleep carried him away from his fears.

Dragging himself through the door of Holy Mary's Healing Hands he could only wonder if he really had the energy to deal with the ins and outs of the daily grind. While walking through the halls of the hospital he waited for his eyes to adjust, for the weariness of a sleepless night to clear from his vision. The once sparkling pristine halls of Holy Mary's now seemed dull, tarnished, even run-down in some places. A comely nurse approached him, her shoes landing on the lusterless linoleum with barely a sound.

"Dr. Brady, good morning. I have an updated patient file for you. Mrs. Cole in 109 required immediate medical intervention last night." She handed the folder to him. He flipped it open, attempted to read some of the efficient medical type and quickly gave up closing the folder with a snap.

"Sorry, Nurse..." a quick glance at her name tag, "Nurse Pruitt, I have had a very long night myself and since I have yet to have my coffee I am not even going to attempt to read this. Please give me a summary of the events that transpired."

"Last night, Mrs. Cole's blood pressure tanked, she began to hallucinate before losing consciousness. Since we were aware that she had not been taking care of her diabetes we had an idea of where to begin our tests. A blood glucose level check and visual analysis of extremities revealed multiple blood clots in her fingers and toes which required surgical amputation. She is in recovery, still a bit disoriented and delusional but seems to be stabilizing. There are some post-op photos included in the folder."

"Thank you nurse Pruitt. I now have my coffee please inform the others I will be making my rounds in ten minutes. That will be all."

Sitting down to review the file and give his body time to metabolize the caffeine from the barely palatable swill in his mug, he opened the medical file once more. He made it exactly as far as the patient identification photo before his world collapsed in upon him. He was cast back to the night before, his dream of dark and terrible things and this woman lying in bed.

Elizabeth Cole is lying in her bed, a mysterious noise emanating from some shadowed area of her room. The nurse has just prompted her to turn out her light but fear has gripped her and she cannot shake the feeling that as she reaches out to turn off the light and cast her room into complete darkness that the source of the chit-chit-chittering will pounce upon her and swallow her screams. She reminds herself that she is a 93 year old woman but this night feels different, the air seems stagnant, and she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that she will not awaken from this darkness unmarked. She reaches out, hand trembling, her first attempt at turning the rough plastic knob almost sends the china lamp crashing to the ground. She steadies herself and holding her breath snuffs out the light and plunges into darkness. She can see the eyes, hear the choked clicking of its teeth but she cannot make a sound, she cannot move. She is forced to watch as this living breathing nightmare takes first one step then another toward her standard issue hospital bed. Her breathing accelerates, she begins to whimper, she can feel the the heat spreading across her bed as her bladder releases. It steps closer still, taking its time, marking the distance crossed with the incessant clicking and snapping of its teeth and the barely luminous wide unblinking eyes. As it gets closer her aged eyes are better able to see it for what it really is and she would have given anything not to see at all.

It seemed to be six feet tall from head to foot. Long then feet tipped with jagged, yellowed and cracked nails from which sprouted unnaturally long boney legs. It had no genitals of which to speak but rather a blank swathe of gray skin stretched tight between two overly prominent hip bones. It's torso was squat a pooched as if all of it's organs had been squished together into a smaller than necessary area. She could see the rolls of loose skin rippling from it's deflated and sagging pectorals to the raw and infected looking navel. It's arms were grotesquely double jointed seeming to move in every direction simultaneously and it appeared to have seven fingers, decaying worm infested protuberances really, adorning each liver spotted hand. The worst feature, the one that stole the very breath from her lungs was the face. A horribly disjointed mouth, torn open in an eternal scream which left the lower jaw hanging lower than should ever be possible, wide lidless eyes above a chasm of dark space and black seepage where the nose should have been. It had no ears or hair to draw attention away from it's grizzly appearance and she found her eyes drawn more and more to its void of a mouth. She could hear the clicking of teeth but from what she could see this thing did not have the ability to even close it's maw. When it was finally at her bedside she realized that it was not closing it's mouth but rather clicking sharply a second set of teeth set further back inside of its mouth. The creature looked at her and she knew it was smiling, not meant to radiate warmth but to eradicate it. The smile harnessed all of the evil and malice from which this creature was born and exuded it in spades. She felt the clammy sickly skin of her tormentor upon her hand and watched in terror as her fingers were lifted to it's face. It sniffed her fingers with it's absent nose before slowly pulling her hand toward it's mouth.

She tried to fight but for all of her struggles this beast continued to pull her arm further toward the powerful clicking teeth behind the destroyed facade it presented to her. She tried to scream but as her heart pounded within her chest she was forced to watch in excruciating detail as the beast bit down, severing her finger from her hand at the joint. Over and over she watched as the beast devoured first her fingers, then her toes. She was certain she would die from the onslaught of intense fear and physical mutilation so when her vision began to tunnel out she allowed herself to be swept away.

Dr. Lance Brady dropped the folder to the floor and rushed from the break room. As he traveled he sent a page for another doctor to assist with rounds as he had been called to the basement to work with Abel. He knew that no one would want to trade him places for that task and he urgently needed to have some questions answered. Firstly, what the fuck was going on in this place.

Abel's sanctuary was resplendent, at least to the sleep deprived eyes which now beheld it. The white walls almost seemed to sparkle and radiate a light of their own. Abel was sitting in the center of the room, legs crossed, head hanging to his chest as if he were sleeping. Lance was almost certain that if he were to check the video feeds he would find that Abel had been awake and moving around until just before the doctor entered the room. Lance was annoyed at the deceit but he allowed himself to take a deep breath before addressing his patient. He was shaken, beginning to wonder if the dreams he had been plagued with recently were really just manifestations of a mind confronted with mental illness on a daily basis or if they were the result of something far more nefarious, something he hadn't believed in since he was a child.

"Abel." He said the name patiently but his nerves were shot. He couldn't still the trembling in his hand or the pounding of his heart. Abel remained motionless in his faux sleep. "Abel." Still no response. "Abel! Wake up damn you." Lance nudged Abel's foot with the toe of his white tennis shoes and was greeted with those almost too bright eyes, the piercing green seeming to outshine the radiant white of the padded cell.

"I was just visiting with Mrs. Cole." His voice drew the words out, dragging the sounds and syllables to the pace of a funeral march. "Seems she had a terrible episode during the night. Her fear was quite fetid upon this stale recycled air."

It should have surprised Lance that Abel knew anything of what went on in the hospital above. No one but Dr. Brady would set foot in the basement unless absolutely necessary. He was, however, not surprised. He had come to the conclusion that whatever Abel claimed to be he was not a normal person. Somehow he had access to information and abilities not available to those of the general population.

"Cut the shit Abel," the smile on his face was turning Lance's stomach sour. "What do you know of Mrs. Cole? What the FUCK did I see?"

"You know Doctor, it's not healthy for you to get so worked up. What version of events would you prefer to hear? Would you like the version where you sleep tonight or do you want to know what really happened?"

"You son-of-a-bit..."

"Now, now, Doctor. Sweet talking will get you nowhere."

"Tell me what I want to know," He grabbed handfuls of Abel's shirt into his clenched and shaking hands. "I swear to God,"

"God doesn't listen to you Doctor, not since you let that child die you path-ugh." He was caught off guard by the punch that was driven into the side of his face. The sting of pain was an experience he had not expected today.

"Anything else to say, Abel? I'm running the show, now answer my question."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Losing your temper so quickly. Fine, I'll tell you what you want to know. One last chance Doctor, you had better be certain you want to know. Well?"

"Tell me!"

"It's true Doctor. Mrs. Cole was visited in the night by a less-than-desirable entity. She spent her life chewing others up and spitting them out. Her life as a landlady was sewn with malice, wrath, and a disturbing lack of pity. How many families; women, children, some fresh from the womb, how many did she cast to the curb to suffer at the hands of fate? She lived a life of consumption, seeking anything to augment her status, to raise her above others and now she suffers for her vicious insatiable appetite."

"And how is it you know the nature of her suffering?"

"Have you not figured it out yet, Doctor, I am the architect of this place."

"You are an abomination of human life."

"There is nothing even remotely human about me. I'm quite appalled Lance, you obviously haven't been listening, haven't been paying attention. Well that is going to have to change. You have an important part to play in these events and it is my job to get you to see the truth."

"I don't believe a word you say. You are an architect of nothing but fanciful tales and satanic inclinations."

"YOUR BELIEFS, are not important. You will see Lance, I will show you. Tonight. Tonight you will have a taste of what is to come. You see Lance, we know about you as well, I and those like me have been watching you. You live the life of the voyeur. Your pride fills you with a sense that you can change the world around you. You are filled with a god complex and it brings us great joy to know what awaits you."

"Go Fuck"

"That mouth isn't helping." With a wave of his hand he trapped the words in Dr. Brady's throat. "As I was saying, tonight to test your pride, your power, you so called mastery; you will be lying in bed." He pierced the doctor with an unblinking stare. "You can almost feel the sheets against your skin, the blanket stuffy and suffocating but you won't be able to remove it. Your fears and superstitions about how to keep the boogeyman at bay will prevent you from finding comfort. In the dark of your room you will hear a creak, 'Just the house settling,' you will say to yourself but you will know the truth. You will know the reason you can't look out the window, why you sleep with your back to it each night. You will know that tonight if you glance out of your bedroom window you will be greeted by the face of the monster who tormented your most terrifying nightmares. If you look out of your window, Lance, that beast will enter your room and before it leaves you will have far more in common with Mrs. Cole than you ever hoped to share." He lowered his hand and Lance was once more able to speak though he had no words for the fear he felt. He stood and rushed from the room being chased by the low laughter of the creature who lived in the basement.

Dr. Brady and Cindy were once again wrapped around one another, she could tell that he wasn't his normal self but she had no idea of how to broach the subject. He spared her the need as he began to tell her another story from his childhood. She closed her eyes as his fingers ran through her hair, it was an action his mother had done to him on many nights when he lay beside her.

There once was a boy, named Tommy, who was a loner within his school. He wasn't disfigured or stupid but for some reason the other students wanted nothing to do with him. Everyday he went to school dreading the loneliness he would feel as he sat alone, ate alone, and finally rode the bus home alone. One day there was a solar eclipse, the moon blocked out the sun casting the world into pure darkness in the middle of the day. It was the day after the eclipse that Elisa Stephens arrived at school.

Elisa was easily the most beautiful girl Tommy had seen in all of his sixteen years of life. She had long black hair which fell in curls to her shoulders. She wore the most elegant dresses and shoes putting the debutantes of Tommy's school to shame. She also wore a ribbon around her neck. Every day it was a different color silk ribbon, tied to match the color of her dress, and she never removed the ribbon no matter the occasion.

Now for some reason, Elisa fell madly in love with Tommy and he had to admit to himself that he found the scent of flowers which followed Elisa everywhere was intoxicating. They went to dances together, football games, and even spent time walking hand-in-hand wherever they went. More and more they could be found together in Tommy's room talking or reading, in his living room talking with his mom, or gathered at the dinner table sharing a modest meal prepared with love. The arrival of Elisa had hanged everything for Tommy, he began making friends with others at school, he began to open up to his mother whom he hadn't talked to much since she divorced his father. It seemed to Tommy that the eclipse which swallowed the world in darkness had brought him shining into the sunlight.

One night Tommy's mother had been called back into work at the hospital where she nursed the sick back to health. She didn't know when she would be getting back and advised Tommy to stay out of trouble. He watched as she pulled out of the driveway and drove into the night. Tommy was left alone again and his heart ached for company. He turned his thoughts to Elisa; the smell of fresh cut flowers, and the way she always wore a silk ribbon tied around her neck. She didn't like to talk about the ribbon but smiled so sweetly when Tommy would tell her how beautiful she looked.

On this night where lightning crashed and the rain fell in torrents, he turned his attention to the light she had brought into his life. He called to her with all of his heart, knowing she couldn't hear him wherever she was but he called nonetheless. He awoke on the couch to a pounding on his door. He rose from his impromptu bed and opened the door to be greeted by the smiling face of Elisa Stephens. She took his hand and led him to his bedroom, climbed with him up onto his bed, and passed the time with ever increasing passion. He found his hands moving farther up her body but as he touched the fabric around her neck he felt a sharp sting as she bit his lip before pulling away. She looked at him and shook her head letting him know that her neck was off limits. The more she told him no the more he wanted to let his hands slide across the tender skin of her delicate neck. They began to kiss again, again he found his hands moving up her body, he touched the silk and again felt pain flood his mind as she bit him once more. Now Tommy had had enough. In a rage he reached out and ripped the delicate silk ribbon from her neck, he watched fear fill her eyes but he did not realize that she was afraid for him, not of him. He started to drink in the sight of her neck but his joy quickly turned to screams of fear as he came to understand why Elisa kept her neck covered with a lace ribbon. An angry open wound stretched from one side of her neck to the other. He could see into her throat, see the muscles work as she swallowed and tried to speak. She grabbed his hand but her Tommy was no more. He had lived just long enough to put all the pieces together; the open neck wound, the constant smell of fresh cut flowers, and why he never went to her house. Tommy had fallen in love with a little dead girl, a suicide soul brought back from the depths by the shadow of the moon and the call of a lonely heart.

Lance and Cindy lay beside each other in silence for a while before Cindy worked up to ask the question she truly wanted to have answered.

"Lance, why do you like telling horror stories?"

He pulled back from her distancing himself physically and emotionally. He seemed deeply bothered by the question she had asked. Consequently she wished she could take the question back, to return to the warmth of his embrace and a peaceful night's rest. It was too late now, the die had been cast and one way or another things would be changed after tonight.

He cleared his throat and looking away from her responded, "I told you already, my mom told me these stories as a child. It was one of our favorite traditions. Telling the stories makes me feel close to her again."

"I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's fine," he turned to her once more and had a comforting smile on his face. "Let's get some sleep babe."

They turned out the lights and soon she was sleeping soundly while Tommy tossed and turned in his sleep. On this night he was visited in his sleep by nightmares of a more corporeal and mundane nature still he awoke with the familiar tremors of fear and the sickening taste of bile in his mouth. He started to move to get out of bed but a voice stopped him. What's behind the blinds, Lance? These simple words filled him with terror. He remembered the promise Abel had made, he could feel the fear setting in, the anger at being so childish, but the powerlessness to be unable to change his current situation. He knew that he could not rise from bed, knew that he would spend the night staring at the closed blinds of his window with the knowledge that something terrifyingly unimaginable was staring at the blinds just waiting for him to open them. He was exhausted by the time the sunlight began to filter through the plastic slats of the cheaply made blinds. Yet another night of sleeplessness passed in excruciating detail and with the daunting prospect of spending another day on solitary row, he could feel his anger at Abel flaring.

Chapter 4

"So," Abel began after sitting in uncomfortable silence for two hours, "did you open the blinds?"

Lance, feeling the effects of sleep deprivation, chose to ignore Abel's prodding. What had started as a harmless bit of fun seemed to have become a game with a madman and Lance didn't think he had the strength to keep going without sleep. He had been brought up to respect the mystical, frightening aspects of the world; ghosts, vampires, etc. but he had long since thought he could no longer be frightened by children's stories. From his most recent experiences with Abel and the resulting sleeplessness he determined that fear was still a very real aspect in his life whether caused by a real danger or an imagined one.

"How about I tell you a story, I know you are a sucker for a good horror story."

Lance again refused to respond, hoping against hope that without an engaging presence in the room that Abel would tire of him. Lance found, to his chagrin, that Abel did not care if he spoke or not.

"This is a story about the Rogers family and their new house. Oh, I think you are going to love this one."

Lance braced himself as his vision swam, colors rushed into the white room swirling together in a manner reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night though with a much more varied colors. Lance found himself holding his breath as the story Abel spoke became images before his eyes. It was almost like watching a movie with Director commentary on but without the separation of the viewer from the material.

Dan Rogers was an investment banker. He was a devoted husband, a loving father, and poured all of his energy into trying to provide the finer things in life for his family. Now, the media plays up the life of the investment banker showing extravagant cars, houses, and lifestyles but this is really only representative of a small, amoral portion of the investment banker population. In truth, it is a decent paying job, but it is still a job, which implies that one is paid just enough to keep doing what they are doing and not paid so little that they quit and find other employment options. Dan Rogers, after twenty years of helping others manage their money and continue to yield returns on their investments, has been presented with an opportunity he would have to be crazy to refuse. A powerful mogul of industry wants to hire Dan as a personal investment manager and has offered not only a ridiculous salary but also to provide funding for relocation and housing. Mr. Rogers, after having secured his wife's approval graciously accepts the offer and within the month the entirety of the Rogers family is standing in the driveway of their new home.

A mid century, two story, plantation style house with fifteen acres of land smack dab in the middle of a town cocooned in history and social involvement. There is an air of mystery about the house and passersby have been known to shiver at the thought of what horror stories may lie in wait within the aging walls. In today's society, especially with regards to real-estate their exists this notion of full disclosure regarding events surrounding homes, but this concept is not as catch-all as it would seem. Sometimes, the realtor just doesn't know all the facts about a house, sometimes there are details which can be omitted once a sufficient amount of time has passed. In the case of the Rogers' new home there was not a stain to be discovered or details which would give a buyer pause when considering signing the bill of sale. Soon the family had settled in and it seemed that life could begin anew for the two adults and their young children.

So much hope, but that was before the noises heard only in the dead of night.

What began as an occasional bump in the night or some light scratching sounds which could easily be mistaken as a tree limb scraping the roof or a woodland critter trespassing, became something much more insistent.

Lying in bed, late at night, Dan Rogers tries to ignore the bumping, scratching, scurrying sounds that emanate from the attic. He has spent the past few weeks having all manner of rodent and housing inspectors try to locate the cause of the noise but to no avail. He fancies himself a rational man but even the most rational of minds can be plagued by terror. The black canvas of closed eyes giving birth to all manner of monsters staking a claim in his home. There have been times that Dan has gathered the courage to investigate the attic on his own but his terror only increases when he finds no explanation for the nighttime chaos.

He loses sleep. His job performance suffers. Yet somehow he manages to land a large investment opportunity which will guarantee him a promotion and job security for years to come. He had called to let Charlotte and the kids know that he would be working later than usual so it was no surprise that few lights were burning when he arrived home. He entered and though the environment felt different, more alien than usual, he was so ecstatic about the future that he sought out his family in high spirits to share the news.

Room after room he scoured the house, calling names, hearing nothing in reply but the occasional echo of his own voice and the soft pat of his shoes upon the carpeted walkways. A cold draft wrapped about him, slamming home the realization that something was not right, something compelled him to run, leave the house and never return, but the rational part of his mind fought back, urging his feet to move forward step-by-step. His heart began to pound within his chest, his ears were filled with the sound of blood rushing through his veins, and he struggled for each breath he barely managed to pull into his lungs. Panic swallowed him whole as colors swam before his eyes. He blacked out.

There are things, to be certain, which are more terrifying than upon waking finding yourself in the dark in unfamiliar surroundings. One of those things is awaking and finding yourself in a place which truly terrifies you. Dan Rogers screamed when he came to and found himself in the heart of the attic which had become a personal tormentor as of late. He stopped his scream short when an all-too-familiar sound became apparent. The unexplained scrape, scratch, scramble, bump he had been hearing every night for the past few weeks. He looked around, first left, then right. He saw varying levels of inky black darkness filling the space of the attic but he could not find the source of the noise. He blinked his eyes, willing them to adjust faster, willing them to find something which would help him make sense of the situation, something to extinguish his terror.

Twitching and undulating in an impossibly manner was a thin mass of sagging skin and scrambling appendages all adorned in sagging gray, sore-riddled, skin. The eyes were shining orbs of silver, devoid of a pupil or iris, just silver mercury orbs flashing in the not-too-distant reaches of the attic. It twitched toward him, movements like seizures allowing the monster mobility as it flipped, crawled, and twisted in a tornado of stuttering, halting movements. Closer and closer it moved toward Dan Rogers, its teeth clicking and snapping, chomping and gnashing, yellow phlegm-filled spittle dripping from its open maw. The grotesque abomination never blinked, the eyes never moving from their target even as the movements became more violent. Dan Rogers, immobilized by fear, could not feel the release of his bodily functions, could not hear the sound of his scream resounding through the house. He had only one thought before the pain of being consumed alive, the pain of dull teeth tearing flesh from bone, stopped all thought; monsters are real.

Weeks passed by but the Rogers family was never heard from again. Though the house fell into disrepair it still stands, just as it was left. And, if someone were brave enough to walk the gravel road at night, just over the sound of crunching stones beneath their feet they may hear a noise not entirely unlike a scraping. A sound which could be easily mistaken for a tree branch scratching against a roof or window, if not for the chills down their back they would never know it was something much more deadly than a tree branch, something waiting, something which will never die.


End file.
